Where The Guys Are

So I get a frantic phone call the other night from some other guy named Dan. Unusually for him, he's pretty desperate. He tells me I'm just about his last hope. I argue that I'd feel out of place, don't have anything to wear, need a haircut, my second chin's sporting an eleven-o'clock shadow, I don't wear shoes that don't flaunt my unseemly toes this time of year, I seem to have misplaced my box of Q-Tips for like the last fortnight or so, I haven't tied a tie this decade--the usual--but he's adamant. Offers me a 40% off coupon at a dry cleaner's, says it's time I expand my horizons, there'll be $2 Guinness pints. I say why didn't you say so. He says don't be late. That's how I found myself on the other side of the tracks from the semi-weekly-or-is-it-monthly Oddfellows meeting, way on the other side, at a bar simply called The Bar, at the weekly meeting of the Regular Guys.

Let Me Be Frank About It checks my ID at the door and scoffs. "You should trade names with this guy," and introduces me to Sloppy Joe, who looks like I usually do when I'm not so gussied up. I find a seat at the bar and order a pint from some guy named Moe. Next to me are Yesiree Bob and No Way Jose, carrying on some kind of existential argument that will go on all night; Bob ends up buying all their rounds. By and by the entertainment strikes up--Joe Blow on a solo tuba. No Shit Sherlock drops by to tell me I'm sitting in a bar while You Don't No Jack holds court and whips everybody's ass over at the Trivia Contest. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the place hits up everyone else, asking if they'd like to be the fourth in their golf outing next Tuesday. I spy Tricky Dick pickpocketing Peter and then telling Paul, "Here's that twenty I owe you." Uncle Sam and John Bull are over in the corner arguing about tea while John Q. Public stands in the middle of the joint saying hello to everybody. As the bar clock hits the hour mark Steady Eddie does another shot. Even Steven is here, but nobody can find Waldo. Johnny Boy comes in carrying a surfboard, but Charlie shoos him away and he leaves. We hardly knew him. By this time I have to hit the head and am rather disconcerted that the guy next to me at the urinals seems to have wandering eyes. I close up shop quickly and pass Yesiree Bob on his way in. I hear Bob say, "Hey Tom, how's the squint tonight?" Back at the bar I find Kilroy's been there and all the guys are taking up a collection for Pete's sake. I throw in a couple bucks and get my ass outta there, tearing off my clip-on tie as soon I can.

The Plunger Games

In a world not that different from our own, 18-year-old Scatnipp Everwhine knows her way around a monkey wrench and clogged pipes; she has to, for she lives in District Overyonder, one of six districts that make up the nation Foremerica, where tools are rudimentary and the plumbing worse. At the annual Passing Day ceremonies, Scatnipp is chosen, along with her district-mate Peeta Wrap--a rather sad-sack young man who dreams of being a vending machine repairman--to represent their District in Foremerica's Plunger Games, an awful pay-per-view contest where two young adults (known simply as #1 and #2) from each district are locked into individual port-a-potties where they must read godawful third-generation fan fiction while subsisting solely on spicy, laxative-laced fare. The last one to make use of the only tool provided--a splintery plumber's helper--to unclog his or her notoriously malfunctioning port-a-potty wins the respect of the nation and a home with indoor plumbing. This year's interminable tome that the Great Unflushed (that's what they call the district reps) must read continuously while sitting on their holes is Fifty Shades of Pink Slime, a horrendous, laborious look inside the lascivious world of meat packing. Will Scatnipp emerge from her port-a-potty unwretching in triumph? Will Peeta Wrap ever succeed in winning anyone's sympathy? Will that treacherous good-for-nothing from District Aroundthebend, Dustin Beeper, get his pretty blond hair mussed up? And what will that vamp from District Somewheredownthattaway, Oxsona Bayou, learn about seducing a slaughterhouse hand from her voracious reading? If you care, stay away from this blog in the future.

Some Saturday Nonsense

The Unusual Suspects


When my cat,
Hanna Karenina Barbera, died,
I was out walking the dog, Sit,
And Curiosity proved
To have an iron-clad alibi,
So I was forced to round up
The unusual suspects.

On a carton of eggs,
I used the best techniques
I’ve gleaned from assiduously
Tivo-ing The Closer,
But they wouldn’t crack.

With a deft change of clothes
I managed to single-handedly
Good cop/bad cop the salt and pepper shakers
But I couldn’t get anything out of them.

When I cast aspersions at the blender
She immediately called her lawyer,
The can opener, which made me think
She was the culprit
And for a while she got all mixed up in her story
But eventually the stepladder stood up for her
And admitted the two of them had been
Fooling around in the broom closet
At the time of Hanna’s demise
(needless to say, the spatula went ballistic).

The curtains opened up
And admitted their jealousy of Hanna,
But they swore their innocence,
And who am I to doubt my curtains?
I’m just a bachelor, after all.

I roughed up a couple of throw rugs
And knew they were lying—as usual—
When they told me they were studying
For their GMATs at the time,
But in the end they just seemed too lazy
To be killers.

Eventually I decided to sift for clues.
I snatched some hairballs away from
The frolicking dust bunnies and
Cleveland Heights CSI-ed them
Under my 1.75 reading glasses,
But saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The catnip bean bags didn’t smell or taste
Funny, and when I regained my senses
I grabbed my pail and shovel
And headed for the litter box,
Where I almost simultaneously
Shat and peed my pants.

There, clumped but distinct,
writ small but legibly
(oh Hanna Karenina Barbera, you were
so agile and polite) was this message:
“Apathy’s got the best of me.”

I was crestfallen.
A little more investigating and sure enough,
I found my candy dish filled with Valium (Valia?)
Had been ransacked
And two empty airplane Vodka bottles
Had been ditched behind Hanna’s favorite
Clawed coffee table leg.

There you have it:
The most unusual suspect of all,
Apathy killed my cat.

I really need to get another life.

Pere Ubu-George Had a Hat